Don't Tell
by shinigami nanoda
Summary: Racetrack shoved his hands into his pockets, his right hand fiddling with his dice. Maybe it was nothing. Some language. Slash.


**AN: I wrote this for ShamRockCenter as a thank you for being awesome (and for bribing me with masseuse!Skittery). I intended it as a one-shot, but it started taking on a life of its own. I will eventually write the surrounding story, but I think this part can stand on its own for now.**

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Light from the setting sun filtered into the warehouse through grimy windows. The shadows stretched along the floor, blanketing parts of the room in darkness. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, which was filled with the smell of brine and fish. The building, as well as the surrounding area, was completely deserted. In other circumstances, the stillness could have been relaxing. Not today though. The whole thing felt off. It felt like a setup: it was too late, too empty, too quiet.

Racetrack shoved his hands into his pockets, his right hand fiddling with his dice. Maybe it was nothing. He chewed on the end of his unlit cigar. Maybe he was just being jumpy for no reason.

Seeing Spot hadn't always made Racetrack nervous. Lately, though, things had changed. Spot had a knack of knowing what people tried to hide from him; Race knew Spot would see what he was and what he felt. Spot would hate him for it, and Race didn't think he could handle that.

So Race was worried that Spot asked to meet him in an empty warehouse. He saw goons lurking in every darkened corner, heard chains and clubs clinking in the creak of the roof. Race didn't think Spot would do something like that, but he'd been waiting just long enough to feel antsy. He weighed the possibility of getting jumped now against the certainty of having to deal with an angry Spot later. The odds weren't good either way.

Race let a long breath out of his nose, tucked his cigar into his pocket, and decided to go with his gut. As Race turned to walk to the door, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Race turned back, and there was Spot, leaning against the side of a crate. "Didn't think you were gonna show up."

"Didn't think you'd get spooked so easily," Spot returned as he strolled lazily towards Race. "Haven't seen you around much lately."

"What of it?" Race shrugged his shoulders. The truth was Race had been avoiding Spot since the strike. But Spot didn't need to know that.

"Just wondering why."

"Ain't none of your business."

"Way I see it, I can make it my business." Spot didn't like his questions being brushed off. But there was really no good way for Race to answer.

They stood, staring at each other. Race ducked his head, looking away. He could feel Spot's eyes boring into him. His stomach, which had been doing nervous flips for a while, went ahead and tied itself in knots.

"Look, I-" Race interrupted himself, "So, what am I doin' here?"

"I asked you to be here," Spot answered, as if that explained everything.

"C'mon, Spot," Race snapped, "I ain't got all night."

"You got someone else to see, punk?" The accusation in Spot's voice stung like a slap.

Race's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?" He felt cold fingers of fear creeping up his spine.

"You heard me," Spot's voice cracked in the empty air.

"Fuck off, Spot."

Spot cocked his head, "I've just heard it around that you're not exactly a ladies man."

"Yeah, I heard that one too." Race rubbed the back of his neck. This was not going well.

"Is it true?" Spot stepped closer, his face impossible to read.

"What do you think?" This was not a conversation Race wanted to have, especially with Spot.

"It don't matter what I think." Spot asked again, "Is it true?"

"You expect me to answer that?" Race desperately wanted to step back and put more space between them. But that would give Spot his answer.

"Yeah. I do."

Race barked a sharp laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah. 'Cause I asked you," Spot rested his hand on the brass head of his cane, "And if you are, I might have to do something about it."

"I'm leaving." Race's mouth sunk into a frown. "I don't have to take this."

Spot's arm shot out and his hand curled around Race's arm, stopping him short.

"Lemme go, Spot. I'm warning you." Race's eyebrows drew together, creasing his forehead.

"What you gonna do about it?" Spot's eyes narrowed and the corner of his mouth rose into a taunting smile.

Race balled his hands into fists, fingers clenched tight. He didn't want to fight Spot, mostly because Race knew he would lose.

"You sure you want to do that, Race?" Spot's smirk was just begging to be wiped off his face.

Race let his fist fly, only to have Spot dodge inside it, leaving them nearly nose to nose. Be fore Race could get his arm up for another swing, Spot grabbed him by his collar and crushed their mouths together. Suddenly, Race didn't know what to do with his arms. Actually, he wasn't really sure what to do with the rest of his body either. Spot pushed him against the wall, tongue probing lightly against his closed lips. Instinct took over, and Race opened his mouth, allowing Spot in. Heat coiled from where Spot's knuckles brushed against the bare skin of his throat, from the way their chapped lips moved against each other, from the realization that Spot was kissing him. Then Spot pulled away, leaving Race to waffle between fear and lust.

"Shit." The word hissed out between Race's teeth.

"Guess I got my answer." Spot's face slid into a self-satisfied smile as his fingers unwound from Race's collar.

"That ain't fair, Spot." Race's breathing was ragged.

"Who says I play fair?"

This time Race landed his punch. "Now what?" Race's chin lifted in defiance. "You know what I am. You gonna finish what you started?" Part of Race knew it was a bad idea to goad Spot, but he couldn't help himself. If he was going to get thrashed, he might as well deserve it.

"Yeah, I am." Spot started towards him, rubbing his jaw.

Race's survival instinct took over. He bolted towards the door, running into the lengthening shadows. As he chanced a glance behind him, he clipped his shoulder against a crate. He took a sharp hit from the floor and was scrambling to regain his footing when he felt Spot's hand grab him by the back of his shirt. Spot hauled him to his feet, spun him around, and shoved his back against the rough wood. Race screwed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the beating that was coming. He opened his eyes as Spot's hands came to rest lightly on his shoulders.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Spot leaned in closer, his lips right next to Race's ear. "I ain't quite a ladies man either."

Race stood motionless, frozen from head to toe. "That ain't funny, Spot." He put his palms against Spot's chest to push him away. Race was disgusted to see that his hands were shaking. Spot didn't budge. The smell of cigarette smoke rose from Spot's skin, mixing with the salty air.

"I look like I'm joking?" Race looked at Spot's face and was surprised to see the undisguised want in his eyes.

"No," Race answered quietly.

"Good. 'Cause I ain't," Their lips met again, slowly, but with too much intensity to be gentle. Spot's lower lip was caught between crooked teeth. Hands slid and groped, clutching at clothes, skin, and hair. Their bodies pressed together, creating their own heat as the evening cooled. Spot nipped at Race's neck and whispered into his shoulder, "You tell anyone, I'll soak you myself."


End file.
